When, safe from the shifting sands of this illusory island, the Captain trod the deck, the real terra firma for him, he called the boatswain, the only one of the crew who, he knew, would not think him a doddering old fool for his orders.
"Benson, how old are you?"
"I'm sixty-one, sir, next December."
"No, Benson, you're not, you're twenty-one!"
"Ay, ay, sir, if you say so, sir."
"And you're going to man the long boat and load her with picks and shovels, tents and provisions; take Joe Bowling, Jack Beam, and Yeo—and I s'pose that cussed gypsy—around this island with Ben, and dig for gold."
For a second there was a gleam of suspicion even in trusting old Benson's eyes.
"Gold, sir?
"Yes, gold, and pirate gold at that. In a chest, Benson, buried under the sand by wicked pirates, d'ye hear?"
"Ay, ay, sir!" he stammered.
"The youngsters want a holiday. They shall have it. We'll dig for that gold. And by the way, arm the men. It's lucky we've those cases of rifles aboard."
Then he called after the old boatswain:
"Remember, Benson, you're only twenty-one."
The old salt evidently thought it incumbent upon him to rehearse the business of his rôle immediately, for, as he rolled away in the Gilbert and Sullivan manner he deemed appropriate, he stiffly executed the steps of a hornpipe, hitching his trousers fore and aft, and singing in a voice like a half stopped-up fog-horn.
